POV Norah
The first three days blurred into tea steam and whispered check-ins.
“Sit,” Xander would say, guiding me to the sofa like I might shatter. “Sip. Slowly.”
“I’m not made of spun sugar,” I’d mutter, but I obeyed, because he stood there until I did.
He set phone alarms for my meds. He made the chef switch to “gentle” foods. Broths, soft rice, applesauce that tasted like childhood. He moved the armchair closer to the window because “morning light helps.”
He added a weighted blanket to the end of my bed and draped a sweater over the back of the chair because “you run cold.” He worked from home with the volume on his laptop turned low, as if the emails might wake me.
He didn’t ask me to be strong. He didn’t fill the silence with clichés.
Xander sat nearby and turned the pages of a contract slowly, as if the sound could count my breaths for me. When I dozed, I’d wake to a glass of water refilled and a note on the coaster in his precise handwriting.
On day three, the soft clang of a spoon against porcelain came with a question that sounded like an order. “Eggs?”
“Too hopeful,” I said from the sofa.
“Toast, then.” He didn’t wait for agreement.
When he brought the tray, my phone lit up—Fiona flashing like a fire alarm.
I swiped. “Hey.”
“Girl, where are you? Are you alright?” Fiona’s voice hit full volume, part concern, part gossip-bird on a telephone wire.
“I’m okay,” I said, which wasn’t true, but it was true enough for a work call.
“Define ‘okay’ because there’s a rumor stampeding through the office that you were pregnant with the boss’s baby, and then Madison and Jennifer found out and now they’re fired. Did you cast a spell? Blink twice if you’re a witch.”
A very inappropriate laugh escaped me. “Well…”
“Oh my God. No way. No. Way.” She dropped to a whisper so intense I could hear the punctuation. “Is. It. True?”
“Not completely,” I hedged. “And please don’t yell it in the office—”
A door banged on her end.
“—I SAID GET OUT, YOU HUMAN SPREADSHEET ERROR!” She snapped, then muffled the receiver. “Sorry, an auditor tried to breathe near me. Okay. Back to you. Spill. The. Tea.”
Xander glanced over from his laptop, one eyebrow asking, ‘Fiona?’ and I nodded. He set the scotch glass on a coaster like he was setting down a weapon and quietly left the room, closing the door to give me privacy.
I exhaled. “Fine. But you can’t tell anyone.”
“You have my eternal vow—unless it’s hilarious, then I’ll tell the Head of HR. It’s gonna be our secret.”
“Fiona.”
“Kidding. Maybe.”
So I told her. Not the aching parts, but enough: the contract, the clinic, the positive test in the conference bathroom. Madison and Jennifer and the stall and the pain, Xander’s voice like a knife, the instant firing, the hospital, the quiet after.
Silence bloomed.
For a long moment, Fiona just sat there, her usual smirk gone. Silence pressed between us until she finally reached across the desk, her voice softer than I’d ever heard it.
“Norah… I’m so sorry. Are you… are you okay? Really?”
The concern in her eyes made my throat tighten. I swallowed and nodded, though it felt fragile, like the movement might crack me open.
“I’m managing. Xander’s… he’s been taking really good care of me.”
Something in her expression shifted—like she’d been waiting for that one glimmer of light to cling to.
Her mouth curled back into familiar mischief, “Oh, so we’re not just talking boss mode here. We’re talking domestic. Tell me—what’s he like at home? Does he know how to do laundry? Or is he one of those men who pretends socks don’t exist and buys a new pack?”
“He’s… attentive,” I said, watching the closed door like it might listen in. “He’s been making sure I eat. He… makes my favorite tea.”
“Tea?” Fiona gasped like I’d said diamonds. “Oh, he’s in love.”
I closed my eyes. “Please don’t.”
“What are you going to do now?” she barrelled on. “Like… are you two trying again? The natural way?”
“What? No!” My voice leapt a full octave. “That’s… no.”
“I’m just spitballing, babe. I mean, look at the options. Clinic was clinical. You’re already living together. The man makes tea. I’m not saying climb him like a tree—”
“Fiona.”
“—I’m saying if biology requires cooperation, perhaps you two could… cooperate. Science! For the baby!”
My face went volcanic. “It’s not that simple. There are… boundaries.”
“Contracts have addendums,” she sang. “Also, feelings exist.”
I pinched the bridge of my nose. “This is a terrible idea.”
“In my experience,” she said, “terrible ideas make the best stories. Also, is he hot when he cooks? Wait, does he cook?”
“He… supervises.”
“Oh, he’s definitely in love.”
“Stop saying that.”
She softened. “Are you okay, truly?”
A beat. “Less not-okay than I was.”
“Good. Text me if you need me to threaten anyone with spreadsheets. I love you. Try not to combust.”
We hung up and the room felt bigger without her voice, and somehow lonelier.
I stared at the tray he’d left. Toast cut diagonally, butter softened properly, a small dish of jam with a spoon resting just so.
The longer I looked, the less the cons lined up.
Another round of injections. Another sterile room. Another set of gloved hands and counting ceiling tiles to stop from crying.
‘Contracts have addendums’ Fiona had said.
I pressed my palms to my eyes until the stars bloomed.
No.
But the word didn’t sit right anymore. It slid off and left a question: Why not?
Downstairs, the kitchen lights glowed warm against steel and stone. Xander stood by the island, sleeves rolled, tie gone, reading something dense while the scotch in his hand went untouched.
He looked up when he heard me. The intelligence in his eyes was a blade and a shelter. He took in my face—red from phone-crying, hair in a knot that had given up—and didn’t comment.
Instead: “Hungry?”
“A little.”
He plated food like a man performing a chess strategy: salmon, soft rice, steamed carrots. He slid the plate toward me, then a glass of water, then sat across, waiting to see if I’d eat. I took a tentative bite. It was perfect. Of course it was.
We ate in silence two beats too long. Either I could keep hearing Fiona’s voice in my head, or I could make it stop.
“Xander,” I said.
His eyes flicked up immediately. “Yes.”
I laced my fingers together so they would stop visibly shaking. “I… want to talk about trying again.”
He went very still. I could hear the clock over the stove ticking, and the low hum of the fridge, and my heart behaving like it had forgotten cardio.
Xander set the fork down with care.
“When… If you’re ready,” he said. “We can schedule with the clinic. There are different protocols we can—”
“That’s not what I mean.” My voice came out softer than I intended, so I cleared my throat. “I mean… trying again, but… not with the clinic.”
His brow ticked. “Meaning?”
I swallowed. “Let’s try again, but this time… the natural way.”
He actually choked on air. The scotch stayed untouched, but his composure took a swan dive. “Norah.”
Heat crawled up my neck and I stared at the rim of my glass.
“Another IVF attempt feels cold. Clinical. I know the science, I do, and I respect it. But I can’t go back in those rooms and pretend I’m just… parts. We need the same outcome, a baby…”
I finally looked at him, and the look on his face nearly knocked me back. Panic, hope, something molten.
“But why not approach it differently?”